


The Sparkly Purple Hoop

by istia



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Light-Hearted, M/M, POV John Sheppard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-01
Updated: 2005-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:15:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/istia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lightweight take on a familiar theme: <em>Oh, good, another alien rite.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sparkly Purple Hoop

"They have a rite they require us to perform." Teyla's voice was apologetic.

"Oh, jeez, not again. What is it with aliens on alien worlds and their ridiculous, harebrained 'holy rites' and expecting every visitor to--"

"McKay."

"--jump through hoops, this one here, that one behind you--oh!, don't forget the sparkly purple one up there, that's our most holy hoo--"

"McKay!" John turned to Teyla and met her bland eyes as she tamped down laughter. "So, this rite. Is it absolutely necessary we go through with it before they'll agree to trade with us?"

"Actually, it is necessary that the rite be satisfied before the elders will consider the possibility of trading. I am sorry, Major. They're an insular people and put strong faith in the traditions they've lived by for generations to keep them safe. I can say, however, that when my people visited long ago, they agreed to participate in the rite and suffered no ill effects."

"Ridiculous hoopish hogwash." Rodney's mutter was almost inaudible; quiet enough, at least, for John to ignore it.

"So, okay, what is it they want us to do?"

He was mentally skimming the list of possible forms the rite might take, based on far too much first-hand experience: armed combat; unarmed wrestling; fasting while a full moon rose; wearing silly robes and genuflecting to a stone idol that looked like Mother Teresa on crack; being naked and genuflecting to a wooden idol that looked like a naked Bill Gates on crack; smoking a ritual pipe in a room with the fug of burning cow pies; eating magic mushrooms, alien version, and forgetting everything that followed. The worst was the last, especially when it came to trying to write the mission report. And discovering soreness in odd places.

Well...the worst except for the naked Bill Gates one. Even if it were the only way to save Atlantis and the entire goddamned world, he doubted he could survive that particular rite again. If they'd had to stay another two minutes the last time, Rodney's strangled-cat noises would have gotten them all shot.

"They require the leaders of the visiting party to exchange blood."

"Blood!" Rodney's outraged yelp clashed with Ford's pleased: "The leaders?"

"What kind of blood?" Rodney demanded, overriding Ford with sheer bullishness.

"Well, hey, the usual kind, I bet. You know, that red stuff that runs in the veins even of geniuses."

"Have I remembered to thank you lately for the inspired insights we can always count on from you, Major Sheppard? I so appreciate the affirmation you continually offer of how right I was in my initial evaluation of your IQ."

Teyla was telling Ford, "Yes, only the leaders of a visiting group are required to participate. They are considered to be the elders and, as such, the representatives of their people." She turned to John. "They have decided you and Doctor McKay are the leaders." She sounded apologetic again.

"So they judge by age." Ford really needed to work on better masking his glee.

"I believe they identified the Major as leader by force of personality," Teyla said.

She fell silent, not commenting on Rodney's accreditation as leader. John used the time to run his eyes over the village. The inhabitants of this tiny, peaceful world were a rural people at about a seventeenth-century level of technology, but their lands had deposits of a mineral with rare conducting properties the scientists--with Rodney at the forefront--were panting for. The silence lasted, oh, at least twenty seconds, which was more patience than he'd given Rodney credit for.

"Let's clarify the situation, shall we. They want the Major and me to exchange blood in some kind of ritual. Is this each other's blood, or our blood with some of theirs, or drinking ritual slaughtered alien animal blood, or, God, just say it's not so, something to do with menses?"

John raised his eyebrows as the flow of words wound down. "Aren't you even curious why they pegged you as the other leader?"

"Oh, like anyone could mistake the leadership qualities inherent in my brain. Now, can we just get on with it so I can get home with the booty?"

"Who said we're going through with it?"

"We need--"

"It's not your call, Mighty Master of Mensa!"

Teyla's voice broke between them, cool as sparkling Perrier on sunburn. "They require the two of you to exchange your own fluids with each other in a rite of brotherhood. Their belief is that if the elders are blood-joined, they will speak as one and duplicity will not occur."

"Harebrained hoopish--" Rodney did an obvious mental shrug. "Okay, okay, we can handle that. Shouldn't be too bad." He was wincing, his eyes screwed up. "Prick the ends of our fingers, stick them together, voila, blood brothers. Antiseptic cream and a tetanus shot as soon as we get back to Atlantis and I shouldn't catch anything fatal from him. When can we get it over with? Right now? Meeting house, market square? Are they gathering the spectators? What's the hold up?"

"It's possible slightly more blood than a pricked finger might be required. When my people were here, I believe they cut the inside of their wrists, very carefully, and mingled the blood that flowed."

"Hey, that's just like a lot of primitive tribes did on Earth--"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure an anthropologist would find it vastly fascinating--though as we don't actually have an anthropologist among us, let's move on."

"Teyla." Rodney's attempts at unilateral decision making and his insults didn't faze John, but he drew the line at the pissy voice. Anyway, he was in complete agreement about getting it over with as quickly as possible. "Let them know we're ready to proceed, and that we'd appreciate as little delay as possible given the urgency of our mission."

She nodded and left. John stood at ease, P-90 held in a relaxed grip, but ready for any surprises. Ford mirrored his stance while facing the other way, scanning the other half of the village with a nicely deceptive nonchalance. Rodney stood between them, pushing up first his left sleeve, then his right, then left again, gazing at the pale skin on the underside of his wrists and flexing his fingers while stroking the blue veins.

Teyla returned shortly with the two elders who acted as spokespeople. They bowed their heads, and John bobbed his in return, feeling like a puppet with a slack string. The elders spoke to Teyla, gesturing to the side. She turned to John with a smile.

"They are happy to offer the use of the ritual hut. The rite is a private act and does not require witnesses. You are welcome to take as long as you wish and perform your own rites of preparation. When you emerge, the elders will be able to tell if you have become blood brothers."

Rodney's head snapped up. "How are they going to be able to tell? Check the cuts on our arms?"

She queried the elders. They smiled and spoke, finishing with another bow of their heads, this time to Rodney.

"No, apparently they do not require any physical proof. They claim they will be able to tell if your fluids have mingled without in any way compromising your privacy."

"Hmm." Rodney shook his sleeves down and looked thoughtful, then turned and set off for the ritual hut.

John pasted on a smile, did his marionette's head bob in what he hoped was a deferential manner, and followed Rodney.

The one-roomed hut had no windows, but was lit with several candles that made the paneled walls glow. A table, a bench, a pair of stools, and a pallet on the floor comprised the furnishings; a stone hearth was swept clean and empty. A knife, a bowl, and some folded cloths were sitting on the table.

Rodney shut the door behind him while John was still surveying the room; he turned to see Rodney pull the latch inside. As Rodney crossed the small room to the table, he was already shrugging out of his jacket. He threw it on the end of the table and looked at John, eyebrows quirked.

"Well?"

"You're taking this better than I expected." John laid his P-90 on the table and undid his jacket.

Rodney was unzipping his shirt rather than merely pushing up the sleeve of whichever arm he'd decided to sacrifice. "Yes, well, let it never be said I'm not willing to give my all for the good of Queen and country. Or universe or Atlantis or Science or whatever."

Rodney pulled his shirt out of his pants and took it off, dropping it onto the table. John rolled up his left sleeve and stopped to watch, bemused, as Rodney pulled his T-shirt off, emerging from it with the little shake of his head he always did. John shrugged, inured to Rodney's vagaries, and picked up the knife. He tried the edge against his thumb; sharp enough to do a clean job. He pulled the wooden bowl closer and looked up.

"Okay, are you ready--" He stopped, staring at Rodney, who was pushing his pants and boxers down. "Uh, Rodney, really, I don't think you need to worry about spattering blood all over your clothes. It'll just be a nick. We're not going to be bathing in the stuff."

Rodney gave one of his inelegant snorts. "You don't actually think I'm going to let you anywhere near my arm with that knife, do you? One little slip across a tendon and I could have permanent damage. It could significantly affect my ability to work! Not to mention be painful and seriously annoying. And even if it didn't slip, there's the possibility of infection; who knows what germs might be lurking on that blade that heating it in the candle flame--"

John looked down at the knife, then at the candle. Huh.

"--wouldn't destroy. So just put the knife down and let's get this done properly."

If it were anyone but Rodney.... But, of course, it was always Rodney. Who was now naked and advancing on him.

"And by 'properly,' you mean what, exactly?"

Rodney's fingers were warm on his as they gently pried the knife from his grasp. Rodney tossed it onto the table and put his hands on the front of John's shirt. As he opened it, Rodney leaned in and pressed his mouth to the base of John's throat. John closed his eyes and dropped his head back with a soft exhalation. Nice that the marionette's string worked in both directions.

"All we have to do is mingle our 'fluids.' Semen should do the job as well as blood and with much less potential for accident."

"No, no accidents." John dreamily looked up from the pallet at the thatched roof above their heads. The sheet was scratchy against his skin, and the straw in the damned mattress rustled in a peculiar way, but it was surprisingly comfy. Rodney was lying between his spread legs, his body supported on his arms on either side of John. Rodney's familiar scent in his nostrils, a mix of arousal and sweat and Lifebuoy, drowned out the foreign smells of beeswax and rushes. Rodney's warm upper body pressed against his rhythmically as Rodney kept dipping down to dot kisses on his chest and nipples, his throat--ah, his throat--and mouth. Their bellies and groins were tight joined, Rodney humping against him in an accelerating drive as John added his own impetus with upthrusts of his hips. John ran his hands over the sharp planes of Rodney's shoulder blades and down his back, following the shift and tense of muscles as Rodney moved, until he gripped Rodney's ass.

Rodney's teeth closed on his earlobe, hanging on as orgasm took him, anchoring John under the weight of his body; but he didn't bite hard enough to draw blood. When Rodney's warm fluid gushed between them, he let go of John's ear and took his mouth, at the same time pressing a hand between their bodies to encircle John's cock, slick with Rodney's come. As his own climax swept over him, John gasped into Rodney's mouth and bit at his lip, but not enough to draw blood.

Even in the haze of orgasm, he was protective of Rodney's blood.

Rodney was a collapsed weight on him afterwards. John first poked, then shoved to dislodge him. Rodney grunted and slid off to lie on his side against John, one leg crooked across John's thighs, which felt too weak to move, though he did manage to slide them together to give Rodney space on the narrow pallet. Rodney's hand idly stroked his shoulder, then feathered down his arm to cover John's hand. John entwined their fingers, rubbing his thumb over Rodney's knuckles.

"Well," Rodney breathed in his ear in a voice that oozed self-congratulation, "jumping through alien hoops isn't always bad, I suppose."

"God, Rodney," he groaned, jolted back to reality. "We were supposed to mingle blood. Now we'll still have to cut our wrists."

"Fluid."

"Blood. Teyla said blood."

"She also said fluid. Anyway, it's irrelevant either way."

John cracked an eye open. Yep, Rodney was smirking. Goddammit, he wouldn't ask; fortunately, as usual, he didn't have to. Rodney slid into lecture mode as easily as he did pissy.

"The common element in the blood-bonding ritual is that once two people have mingled their blood, they're bonded for all time. We did that weeks ago." Rodney's voice turned abruptly hollow. "When you were stupid enough to get in the way of that spear and poured blood all over me as I had to hold on to you all the way back to the gate."

"Rodney." He turned onto his side and pulled Rodney against him, tucking Rodney's head under his chin. Rodney's breath was moist, ragged gusts against his throat and his grip on John was iron.

Rodney had cut his hand helping Teyla remove the spearpoint before they could move him; John had no memory of it, but he suspected Rodney was shaking at the time. They'd been having merely occasional sex for a couple of months at that point; everything changed after he was released from the infirmary. Maybe there was something to the blood-mingling thing.

They used the cloths on the table and a bucket of water in the corner to clean up and were ready to leave the ritual hut in little more than half an hour after entering. John stopped Rodney as he reached to open the door.

"Since you're so sure we'd be able to pass their test without doing anything at all, what was all this about?"

Rodney snorted. "Why, respect, of course; we wouldn't want to give the impression we don't accord their cherished rite the respect it deserves, would we?" He rubbed his hands together. "So, enough time wasted; let's get moving. I want to get my prize back to the lab. Radek and I already have a schedule drawn up to free up time for ourselves by putting the cretins onto--"

John followed him outside, trying to suppress a malicious hope the elders wouldn't be fooled and would send them away empty-handed for not having performed the blood rite. Instead, he got a triumphant beam from Rodney when the elders produced some kind of small device that appeared to be Ancient work, waved it solemnly up and down John's and Rodney's bodies while chanting, looked at the reading, and pronounced them full and true Blood Brothers.

Clearly, they were, as such, incapable of duplicity of any sort and would make reliable trade partners.

"The sacrifices I make," Rodney panted, as he chivvied them back to the gate as fast as John would let him with the first load of his precious rocks.


End file.
